


The Web of Fate

by Aisu



Category: Deltarune (Video Game), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Gen, Statement Fic, i am sorry to both fandoms, oh thank god theres a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisu/pseuds/Aisu
Summary: Statement of Kris Dreemurr, concerning the appearance of 'strings'. Original statement given November 1st, 202X. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.Statement begins.
Relationships: Kris & Susie (Deltarune)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	The Web of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me and i was forced/compelled to write it by higher powers
> 
> so enjoy character studies via magnus archives horror
> 
> thank you to kan for talking about TMA/DR associations with me and dealing w my need to cross over all things, along w reading the outline over

Statement of Kris Dreemurr, concerning the appearance of 'strings'. Original statement given November 1st, 202X. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

So, last year I was... Well, I was going through a lot, is the best way I can put it. My older brother had left for college, and to say I was taking it badly would be an understatement. I all but shut down entirely. Stopped all my hobbies, stopped talking to people... Well, not that I was chatty before, but you know what I mean.

He'd been the one who forced me out of my shell when things got rough, and without him, it just seemed easier to sink back into routine. To just do the same things day after day, no variety, no excitement. It was comfortable. Easy. Go to school, stare at the wall at day, go home, stare at the ceiling all night. On and on.

My parents worried, of course, but they've always been good at ignoring quiet sorts of problems, and I've always been good at hiding them. I didn't want them to worry and start signing me up for after school activities or forcing the daughter of a family friend to start visiting again. So I smiled and said that school was going well, that I was writing new songs, that I'd made friends, and they accepted my lies with visible relief.

From there, the days blurred together a bit. I don't even remember when I first noticed the string around my ankle.

It was thin, nearly invisible except where the light caught it. Like fishing line, or...

Well, it was there, wrapped around my right ankle, disappearing underneath the leg of my jeans. The far end disappeared off through the classroom door, the direction I'd been heading. And once I noticed it, I realized that in the moment before I took a step, right before I moved my right leg forward there was just the softest, subtlest tug, as if it were pulling me along.

I made it into the classroom - late, as usual - and headed to my seat. The string lead me to my desk, of course, those subtle tugs proceeding every motion needed to get me into my desk. I couldn't spot the end of it, though, even once I was settled. It just seemed to lead out somewhere and then disappear.

I spent some time, of course, fiddling as discreetly as I could under the desk. The string was tied seamlessly around my ankle - I couldn't find a knot or a gap anywhere, and it was flush with my skin, impossible to pull away. Some tentative experiments with scissors found that the thing was quite impossible to cut.

So, well.

I got up at lunch, and I followed the tugs to the spot where I always ate alone, and I followed them back to class, and I followed them to mom's car, to my room, to my bed. Nobody noticed or remarked on the string, everyone seeming to easily dodge it, and I didn't say a word.

It was odd, certainly, and worrying. Maybe some sort of mental break. Maybe some ghostly trap, draining my life force with every moment. Maybe something worse, something I couldn't imagine.

But it didn't seem to be leading me anywhere I didn't want to go, honestly. Every tug it made it was in the direction I had already been planning to take. It was just an oddity, a sensation I couldn't shake.

And I didn't want anyone worrying over me.

When the next morning I felt a slight tug against my wrist the moment before my hand moved to open my door, I didn't even feel that surprised.

It was the same as the first, just for my right arm. Momentary pulls, the barest instant before the action I'd planned to take. It was a little more noticeable than the first - eating, taking notes... well, doodling in my notebook, grabbing things, everything I could do with my arm was accompanied by that faint, faint tug in the right direction.

But, as the first, that was all it seemed to be. They didn't drag my arm to force me to punch my annoying classmate, or trip me in the hallways, or anything. Every action they wanted me to take seemed to be the action I was already taking. It was like I was a marionette, but self-directed, self-moving, pulling my own strings just the ways I always had.

The same routines. Simple and easy. Go to class, go home.

The only thing that really changed was that I started doing less. The doodling I mentioned before trickled to a stop. I'd go straight to bed on getting home, lay there motionless. If I didn't move, if I just stayed still, there wasn't that slight disconcerting tug to make me worry.

I didn't want to worry. I didn't want to be worrisome. I just wanted to make it through the days, you know? I could get used to things, easily enough.

The strings kept coming, a new one showing up every day or so. All four limbs were taken pretty quickly, but from there it got more creative, more precise. Fingers were obvious, but I was surprised the first time I mumbled some halfhearted greeting to a classmate and felt the pull against my tongue.

At least that one was easy. I had already been quiet. I just got quieter. No one noticed the change.

But eventually it started getting impossible to ignore. It was a bad one when my blinks started being proceeded by minuscule tugs against my eyelids, to say the very least. I started keeping my eyes closed more often, half-sleeping in class just to keep from having to deal with that feather-light pull again and again and again. And then...

Well, then came the day when every inhalation was proceeded by a distinct tugging sensation in my chest.

I thought about telling someone, then. About finally reaching out, trying to get help. But no matter how thick the cloud of strings around me was - and by this point, there were probably dozens, pulling in all directions and disappearing off to who knows where - nobody seemed to notice a thing. If I spoke up, it was likely it'd be taken as a prank, like the sorts of stories I used to tell as a child about monsters under my bed or demons coming for my soul or whatever.

And even if they did believe me, there wasn't much they could do. Scissors still failed. So did knives. Nothing seemed to even touch the threads, and they just kept pulling in their steady rhythms.

It was... Well, maybe it wasn't fine, but it was manageable. Livable. Like most of my life was. It was something I could handle, could deal with. All I had to do was minimize movement, and speech, and action, and thought. And all of that I had a lot of practice with.

It was all livable.

And then one day I got to school - arms pulled by strings to gently hug my mom, lips and tongue manipulated and tugged to say I loved her, hand waved as she walked away - and, instead of heading for the classroom, I felt the strings around my legs pull me softly down old corridors.

Our school was... It was small, but there were still odd places tucked away, little sections of the building that people rarely went into, corridors covered with dust. And I found myself walking back there, the strings oh so gently coaxing me along.

I don't remember what I was thinking. Maybe I assumed that, just as had always been the case, I had wanted to go back there, and the strings were just matching the movements I'd already planned to take. Maybe I'd just resigned myself, accepting whatever was coming, whatever road I'd been heading along without a word of complaint.

Honestly, looking back, I don't think I was thinking much of anything at all.

There was an old classroom back there, one I vaguely remembered being used for indoor recess when I was a child. I remembered hearing it had been closed off, shut down, but I couldn't remember reasons, just the look of worry on my mom's face.

My hand tugged down, every finger pulled and contorted until I was gripping the doorknob.

Something pulled the door open.

I caught a glimpse, brief. It was dark in there, but the hallway lights just barely illuminated the dense knotted mass of strings, curling around each other, forming terrible knots and curls. All my strings lead in there, unified, a single thick strand that pulled, and pulled, and pulled.

The light caught off red eyes.

The string around my ankle tugged.

In the moment before I could step forward, something grabbed me, hard, by the shoulders, wrenching me back. I could actually feel it as the strings snapped, caught in the door as whoever had dragged me out slammed it shut.

I found myself blinking confusedly - and without any pull - as I took in the face of my savior. She was a classmate, but not one I knew well. In fact, she had a bit of a reputation as a bully, and so I'd done my level best to avoid her entirely. Needless to say, it was a little surprising to find her saving my life.

We ended up sitting together for a bit - in a different unused room, needless to say - and talking. She explained that she'd seen me walking back there, and mumbled something about having had her own weird experiences in the unused bits of the school. I explained about the strings, slowly and haltingly, stumbling over words, and she just nodded and listened along without a question or complaint.

In the end, we skipped class and spent the day getting terrible pizza together and talking.

It's a little funny, isn't it? Going through something like that and coming out the other end of it with a new friend. We're investigating things, together, poring over dusty old stuff in the library and poking around old legends - that's how we found out about you guys, actually, and decided to come in and talk about our stuff. Figure if anyone will know what's happening...

But things are better now. They are. I'm getting out of the house just like mom would want, and I'm spending time with a friend, and I feel awake, alive.

I haven't told her yet about the tiny, tiny feeling I get the moment before every heartbeat.

The barest, slightest tug.

Nobody needs to worry.

Statement ends.

I've had the team looking for the statement of the friend, but given that Mx. Dreemurr seems to have studiously avoided ever giving us anything as helpful as a name, it may take some time.

Mx. Dreemurr themselves seems to have done alright after their statement. They're off to college themselves somewhere in the States, and from all records doing quite admirably as a musician. We sent a request for followup, but no response as of yet.

And, of course, there's the lingering question of if it would be them responding at all.

One can only have hope, I suppose. Not that that's exactly a common commodity to be found.

Recording ends.


End file.
